After The Fall
by FusseKat
Summary: UPDATED 7/24 - CHAPTER ADDED... A phone call to mom & Bobby's POV... We know Bobby Goren cleaned out his father’s apartment, but how close had the two stayed once Bobby reached manhood? I’m assuming little to none. Told from the man’s POV
1. Chapter 1

**All rights to LOCI and it's characters belong to others, no harm intended.**

**We know Bobby Goren cleaned out his father's apartment after he died, but how much contact did the two have once Bobby reached manhood? For purposes of this story, I'm assuming little to none. Told from the man's POV…**

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**After the Fall**

The man found himself on his street again, trying to recall how he had made it here. Trying to recall why he had felt compelled to stumble across the entire city in the sub zero temperatures or blistering heat month after month, year after year to find himself in this same alley. And why he continued to do it religiously for the better part of the last eight years.

The man hid in the shadows, ducked in the alley across from his apartment. The man never wanted him to see, the man always hid, clean and sober, or dirty and drunk. The glow of his cigarette often the only indication that a living creature inhabited the pile of rags his clothes often resembled.

So the man watched, from the sidelines as he'd always done, never speaking but secretly proud of everything the boy had been able to achieve, of how strong he was. As much as he marveled at the boy's strength; he resented it, it should have been his. The man stood back and watched the boy go about his life, as though the man never existed.

He knew he had no right to be angry, but he couldn't help the resentment building inside him, hating himself for not being there, but hating the boy for rising above everything that life had thrown at him when the man was too weak to deal with anything without the aid of a bottle and his fists.

The man wondered where the boy's strength came from. He knew it certainly was not from his mother, a woman who made his alcoholism look more like a Sunday hobby than an addiction. He wondered how the boy could have grown up in that little house in Canarsie, watching his mother vanish before his very eyes. The man hadn't had the stomach for it. The man had walked away.

Perhaps the boy just locked everything inside, kept it under lock and key deep within his soul. His soul surely must be about full of repressed emotions by now. The man figured, there was no way the boy could hold onto so much hurt and sadness and have it not engulf him.

The boy had spent his entire life looking after other people, so that when it came back to himself, he didn't know where he stood, how to deal with his own needs. The man wondered if the boy ever felt loved, even back right at the beginning, when he'd been so innocent, when he had been loved. He had to grow up so quickly, any ounce of innocence cruelly ripped away by the age of seven and the constant tearing away of his soul every day since.

The man figures, what's the point? Why try and figure out problems that have plagued him for decades, when it's easier to hate the world and find solace at the bottom of a bottle. The boy survived. The man didn't.

So one again, the man left, stumbling down the path in the dark, his thoughts slowly dulled by the sweet amber liquor he'd spent most of the day consuming, but his emotions as intense as ever. People say they drink to forget, but he drinks to remember, to remember to hate someone other than himself, to remember to feel something more than an empty nothing.

The man slowly walks on, retrieving a small flask from his tattered overcoat, holding it in his hand for a second, as though considering his choices, before shaking his head and gulping down a mouthful of scotch. Glen Livet. The man still had the ability to buy the good stuff. The man had also noticed it was the boy's choice as well.

Perhaps, he thinks, he'll make it to the door tomorrow, perhaps then the man will try to talk to his son.

Maybe everything will change, and he will forget the man had abandoned him at such a young age, maybe he'll forget the man took the easy way out and the boy will forgive the man.

He takes another swig of his alcohol.

Things had a way of seeming so much more attainable when you have the warmth of alcohol swimming through your system.

But, the man knows, he won't make it to the front door, let alone face a lifetime of mistakes. He's no father now, nor has he ever been.

As the man's slumped form staggers into the darkness, occasionally silhouetted by the dull streetlights, Bobby peers out his living room window.


	2. Like Father, Like Son?

**I had some second thoughts on this one, and added a new chapter about some of Bobby's thoughts about his circumstances...**

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**Chapter 2 - Like Father, Like Son?**

Another night... same situations

Bobby paced in circles as he listened, listened to the same litany of complaints and pleading he heard almost daily. His input mostly limited to scintillating comments such as; "I know mom…", "But mom…", "You … you have to take your medication...", "Dr. Shimu isn't trying to hurt you…", and the one that always brought him the most grief, the one he wasn't able keep from saying when his frustration was at its zenith, such as this very moment, "She's just doing her job…"

That set her off on how different her life would be if Frank were there to take care of things. Bobby pressed his lips together and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window and thought, _Yours and mine, mom. Your life and mine._

When he spoke, he knew the resignation in his voice would be lost on her, her focus now on how wonderful Frank was, "I know mom, I'm sorry. I don't know where Frank is, but I'm sure he's very busy…". He started his circuitous pacing again. As his mind drifted from his mother's complaints, he wondered how far away he'd be from New York and from his life, if he'd spent all that time walking in a straight line.

"_Doing important things." _

He tuned back in just as she stopped talking. "Exactly, mom. He's doing important things. He'd visit you more often if he could. You know he would."

"_That's right, because he knows how to look out for me. How to care for me." _

_He's done such a stellar job of it so far..._"Okay, here's what I can do, okay? I'll make some calls, and… and look around for him. Tell him he really needs to… to take a break and come up to see you." Bobby had no idea how to contact his brother and no idea where he was. The last time he'd seen Frank, his brother he was coming off a gambling binge in Atlantic City and had wanted to bum enough money from Bobby to get a room at the rooming house he'd stay in when he was at rock bottom.

Bobby had gone with Frank to the rooming house and paid for a room for a week. He learned long ago, not to give his brother the cash and expect him to do with it what he said he would. Frank had promised to get a job… any job and pay Bobby back. Another bitter lesson Bobby had learned along the way, was not to expect that to happen. That had been almost a year ago.

"_You'll do that for me, Bobby?" _The disbelief in her voice, slid through him, piercing his heart. Another deadened piece falling away from the repeated stabbings.

"Yes, of course, mom. I'll tell you what I find out tomorrow when I come up to see you."

"_Maybe you can bring Frank up with you? You two should be closer."_

_Did she know anything about either of her sons?_ "I'll try mom, but… but I may not be able to find him by then. And he might still be busy with…"

"_Busy with his work. You won't forget will you Bobby? You'll look for him."_

"No mom, I won't forget."

"_And… and you're still coming up to see me tomorrow? Even if Frank can't…"_

"Of course mom, just like every week. I'll… I'll be there with … or without Frank."

"_Bobby?" _Her voice was hesitant and pleading again…_ "But you'll try to find Frank and…?"_

"Yes, mom. I'll try to find Frank… and bring…"

_Bobby, you're so good to me… and tomorrow, both my boys will come visit me… tomorrow is going to be such a good day…", _she hung up the phone before Bobby could caution her again about getting her hopes up.

"Mom…" Bobby stared at the silent phone in his hand. Slowly closing the cell phone he carefully set it down on the counter, before placing both hands on the edge, he took a step away and bent at the waist to stare at the floor and the tops of his shoes, noticing that they were in need of a good shining.

He took several deep breaths, stretching out the tightness in his neck and back. Straightening, he turned and let his gaze wandered around the room, finally alighting on the remote control. Walking over, he picked it up and hit the POWER button. The sports recap was on ESPN. Lowering the volume, he began his pacing again, still wrought up from his conversation with his mom.

He stopped in front of the same window he'd paused at earlier. He reached out and pushed open the window, drawing in a huge drought of the cool night air of spring. The sparking of a match or lighter flaring from the darkened shadows from the alley across the way caught his attention. He had noticed this on several occasions before and had almost gone down to investigate several of those times.

The hair on the back of his neck always bristled when he consider investigating the situation. He wouldn't have been able to explain his hesitancy to anyone, not even himself. He simply knew, it wasn't in his best interest to go down there.

He watched as the figure of a man emerged from the darker shadows of the alley. He saw the figure tilt back his head and raise a hand to his lips – the man took a long pull from a pint bottle or a flask_. Just another drunk. Another bum._

As Bobby continued to watch the street below, the man's attention seemed drawn to his window and he looked up at Bobby. He turned and ambled down the street, his back straight, his head held high as if he'd sensed Bobby's contempt.

Bobby sighed as he silently admonished himself, _You don't know that man's story, you have no idea what led him to the life he was living. _

A bolt of fear shot through him as he watched the man until he turned the corner_. Someday, unless you're very careful, that could be you. _On that sobering thought, he turned from the window, walked over to the sofa in the middle of the room and slid over the back of it to lie down to catch the rest of the sports highlights. Before turning to see the TV he caught sight of the bottle of Glenlivet sitting on the counter and the empty glass next to it.

_That could be you..._


End file.
